Les Petits Diables
by SnarlingDemons
Summary: AlternateTimeLine...After an unexpected disaster during the German occupation of France in World War II, Francis and his people seem to disappear. Years Later, Arthur Kirkland is chosen to draw the once vibrant Frenchman out of chaos.
1. Prologue

A/N: This has been running rampant in my head for a long time and I'm glad to expand on it. I'm not making any promises about updates because they'll be sporadic and random…

I'd like to clear this up now and if you choose to ignore it and complain, I'm just going to ignore you. I am not a huge history buff who memorizes everything about everywhere so I might miss things or, because I am changing the time line, I may have done so on purpose. If you know something really important and relavent to the countries involved that happened during the years being written about that you believe wouldn't have been affected by the changes that I made but I did not include, feel free to politely propose it and I'll take it into consideration. I'll ignore rude comments.

Also, this story will have a more **serious France**, and the other nations will respond in the way I think would actually make sense. I'm using the knowledge I have retained from 12 years of American history classes, 6 years of French courses, and 2 British Literature classes as well as whatever I happen to look up or get ranted at by my dear APH fanatic of a friend who obsesses over historical accuracy unless stated otherwise :)

Please enjoy and review

**9****th**** of June, 1941**

"Please, Arlo, don't do this..."

Two men stood at the base of a great hill, hidden by the forest that had grown atop it for centuries and now protected what they were led to believe was one of the many bases of the Resistance hidden in the South of France.

Groups had been popping up all over _dans la sud_ and they'd received orders from above

The province of Digne played host to the rowdiest bunch, dragging off German Officers from their posts never to be seen again. Some speculated those that went missing had actually deserted but Arlo was too smart to believe that. Those filthy _Maquis_, as they called themselves, could only have slit the tender flesh of his younger brother, Johan's, throat and burnt his flesh to hide their sinful act.

"They deserve it, Horst, I'll burn 'em out. Burn 'em all out and straight to HELL."

Arlo's voice was hoarse though he kept it just above a whisper. He was sick of them, the French had agreed to collaborate but they weren't honorable enough own up. There were suck ups, there always are but the rest didn't seem to get the message.

So, Arlo would have to show them.

With mud-stained and trembling fingers he slid pulled his grime covered blond locks away from his face and pulled out his canteen of spirits with one hand and the lighter his parents had sent from home for his birthday last February.

He unscrewed the lid of his canteen with difficulty, tucking the small metal gift into the crook of his arm until the stopper was removed. Horst wrings his hands beside him all the while, shaking and begging him not to do it.

Arlo hesitated, took a short swig of the bitter liquid he'd kept stored for the whole three days he and Horst had patrolled the area. Smacking his cracked lips, he moved to sprinkle most of what he'd saved on the trees and grass, only for his arm to wrenched back by Horst's uncharacteristically strong hands.

Several fat drops of the amber liquid leaped from the brim of canteen, splattering across Horst's face and dribbling down his filthy neck, leaving a clean trail of pale white skin beneath the dust and dirt.

"Don't do it Arlo!" He pleaded, sputtering on the liquid that had mixed with the sweat on his upper lip.

"BASTARD!" Arlo swung his other fist around and against the gaunt cheekbone of his only companion. Horst fell, a purple flower rapidly blooming on the side of his face, still shiny and wet. He didn't get up and Arlo didn't notice the blood slowly pooling around his head on the rock that had knocked him out. He was too busy searching the grass for his lighter, cursing gutturally.

His fingers met warm metal and his grasped it tightly before returning to his task, this time, uninterrupted.

Five minutes later, when he was satisfied with the coverage of the alcohol, he stood back several feet, a harsh smile marring his lips.

Arlo flipped open the lighter.

Click, click—FWOOOSH

Red and orange devils chased one another up and down the bark of the trees and through the grass, eating away the border of the forest and climbing up the hill faster, and faster.

He was laughing. He didn't know when he started, only that he was doubled over, howling and crying all at once. But when Arlo looked up Johan's face was watching him from the flames, crimson eyes bored accussingly into his own and white, pure skin burned black and crackled.

Horrified, Arlo tripped and fell backwards, struggling to get away. But Johan was gone and he was by himself with Horst's unconscious body beside him.

Panting now, Arlo hauled himself to his feet and stared into the Hell he had created. As it spread, a long train of destruction had followed the trail of spirits to Horst and Arlo could only stare, distantly, as his friend convulsed, screaming and crying, begging for his to do something, anything to make it stop.

But Arlo was stunned, the consequences of his revenge clear to him now, even as thick, heavy clouds of smoke billowed up into the sky and back down around him.

By the time screams sounded from the hill he was on the ground again, eyes wide with their crystal blue irises reflecting the hot, oranges and reds of the crackling, scorching flames that devoured the grass around him.

They were too entranced by the shining metal in the center of the blaze, glinting and beckoning him, to care about the stench of burnt flesh had wafted around him and encompassed Arlo as his own swelling and reddened skin boiled.

The burns he would live to carry wouldn't hold a candle to the scar that would mark the face of France for decades.


	2. Le Premier Chapitre

**9th of June, 1941**

Francis curled up as much he could with the shackles locked around his wrists which denied him the ability to move farther than two feet from the stone wall they were attached to. His gold strands of hair lay limply on the dirt ground around in a halo around his head as he attempted and, not for the first time, failed to rest. Eyelids fluttered open to reveal bloodshot cerulean eyes, lost and unfocused.

There was no way for him to tell how long he'd been locked up, he only knew that it felt like far too long. He'd been blindfolded the handful of times he'd been brought before Hitler himself, the last thing he'd seen on the outside being General Pétain shaking hands with the very _thing_ he feared and hated the most.

Francis felt his eyes burn but the tears would not come. That well had dried up long, long ago. Nothing could satiate the gnawing hunger in his gut, like his insides were squirming to free themselves from his body. He knew his people, his _country_, was starving and the abrupt panic that caused his heart to race every time Ludwig came to feed him left Francis knowing that _les françaises_ were terrified.

And yet, even as he cowered away from the larger man as he would attempt to feed him stale bread and dirty water, he felt the smallest desire to please him, to please Hitler, the Gestapo, _whoever_, if only to make it stop.

But he couldn't; as futile as he knew it was, Francis couldn't give in. At times, he resented his people. But they couldn't possibly understand how painful it was for him, and even if they could they were far too busy worrying about themselves. His people didn't know the reason he hadn't slept in forever was because each time he would drift off, a new bruise would blossom somewhere, in sync with whatever bomb had just been dropped on his country.

They knew so little about him now that they weren't even _his_ people anymore. They were Ludwig's.

Francis knew he could not put all the blame on the other blond, however. At first, Ludwig's pleasure had been clear, as he reveled in his revenge against Francis, against the Treaty of Versailles and the mud it had dragged him through. But as time went on, and Francis began to wither, he saw the change.

Ludwig had grown paler, more tired, and jumpy to the point of making Francis even more fearful of the giant than before.

An odd warmth ignited in his feet and traveled upward along his side. It was a pleasant feeling, like sitting by the fireside on a cold night. Until it got hotter.

A scream ripped from his throat as the side of his body, the East, seared with mind shattering _pain_.

The shackles clinked and chimed in tune with his writhing and each shriek seemed grow louder.

He was burning, burning hotter than a dark blue flame. Just burning, burning, burning burning burningburningburningburning!

Ludwig flinched as screams reached his ears. He was used to screams that would echo up from the cellar. Since they had invaded Belgium, he had chosen to stay with the Gestapo stationed at Fort Breendock. It had been a desperate attempt on his part to escape the chaos surrounding his own home. While Hitler had become his superior, it was Ludwig's people who were suffering. The camps were horrendous and after his first patrol he'd seen more horrors than he ever wished to share.

But the Fort was hardly any better, the occasional German being hauled in for interrogation, political prisoners, trucks of Jews to be sent to Auschwitz…A shudder ran up his spine and he had to set down the report he was reading.

It had been little over a year since they'd invaded France, bringing Francis back as a prize of sorts. When the so-called 'hero' of the First World War, Pétain, signed the armistice, he'd agreed to hand the blond over. Ludwig had relished in the betrayal, and was pleased to be set loose on the perverted nation. He'd broken Francis' nose once for every one billion marks he'd paid in reparations. That was twenty satisfying crunches of bone. And every time, it would fix itself before two days passed.

Perhaps Francis had taken so many beatings in his lifetime as a country that his body had learned to heal itself faster. He used to laugh at the idea, how weak the other blond was. France's time had come and gone, now he was just a sack of bones.

But that was just it. Francis was all bones. His flesh had slowly disappeared as he became thinner and thinner, the bombs dropped on Paris left sickening bruises across his prominent ribs and spine. The fearful look in his eyes whenever Ludwig entered his cell perturbed him. This was what he had wanted, needed even; Francis cowering before him…yet…

Francis wasn't the cowering sort. He was supposed to get right back up so he could be shoved down again. That was just the way he was! As embarrassing as it was to admit it, he missed the lean but ever so lightly muscled body that Francis would show off at the most inopportune times, the innuendos, the pranks…

All that was left now was a shaking bundle of defeat.

A frown creased Ludwig's lips as another scream bounced off the walls of his office. It sounded familiar, but—could it be Francis? What could possibly….

The Gestapo were forbidden from entering Francis' cell and surely they wouldn't disobey direct orders….But what else? He stood tenderly, carefully avoiding his right leg. It had begun to ache as of late, no doubt in response Chełmno, not yet ready for use but nearly there. He'd likely be unable to walk once the killings started.

He limped down the hall to where the screams emanated, piercing his ears. He threw open the door and was met with scent of burning flesh. His eyes widened and he could only watch in horror as Francis flailed, tugging violently at his restraints, nearly wrenching his wrists from their sockets with each tug.

Ludwig grasped him by the shoulder, needing to make him _stop_.

"FRANCIS!" He barked, but he was drowned out by the screams and the body beneath his fingers began to twitch and shudder. "FRANCIS!"

Ludwig would spend four days with Francis. By the second morning, the smaller of the two would have screamed his throat raw and have lost his voice entirely by the third. On the fourth day, Ludwig would finally see the shiny burns that had crawled from Francis' left foot up the side of his body until encompassed the bottom half of his face.

He would leave the cell to learn of the fire that had sealed France off from outside influence, a blanket of smoke over the sky that would make it impossible for pilots to check the area or get messages to troops.

Antonio would stand at the base of the Pyrenees Mountains, looking on with fear for his old friend even as his people and his superior refused to spare the resources to clear them to find out France's current status.

The West coast of France would be plagued with dangerous waters, hurricanes forming and breaking down, losing speed before hitting land and merely fading off before the beaches were hit.

After six days, the fires will have stopped, and German pilots would uncover nothing but charred forests, towns, and the bodies of thousands of Gestapo, most dead by smoke inhalation, the same would go for one quarter of those who lived in France, their corpses scattered about.

However, there were still 3.5 billion French men, women and children missing.

And when Ludwig would return the cell he'd left Francis in, delirious and unmoving but for the occasional twitch, he would find it empty but for a pair of bloodied shackles dangling just above the ground from where they hung on the dirty stone wall.

Francis would be gone and _his_ people with him.


	3. Le Deuxième Chapitre

The confusion left behind by The Burning of France gave the German populace opposing Hitler the chance they were waiting for.

Millions of friends and family had been lost, and even those once loyal to Nazi Germany were angered by the lack of response from their leader. A significant percent of the army had been lost in the tragedy and Hitler hadn't the time nor resources to investigate a now worthless, barren land.

Against the wishes of his people, and therefore Ludwig's as well, he prepared to expand his power Eastward to make up for the loss of the West. He slowly regained the trust of his people, until February 2, 1943.

The Battle of Stalingrad destroyed his rapidly depleting troops, already spread thin across Europe with little clue of what they were fighting for anymore.

Ivan took his stand and swatted the Germans from his land.

And of course, experience tells that anything the Russki did was far more painful than it should be.

Supporters of the National Socialist German Workers' Party quickly became rebellious. The United States, after Germany declared war with them months after France's destruction, aided the resistance with a vengeance, providing the supplies necessary to unravel the Nazi Party's control over the country, while the Allies slowly liberated the countries that had fallen under Hitler's command.

Within months, Hitler was overthrown and Ludwig, in some strange sense of duty to the nation he'd seen unravel before his eyes, requested he be executed via Guillotine. While the world looked on in relative disgust, they did nothing to prevent it, just as they'd done nothing to stop the Tyrant from coming to power in the first place.

Though the war between Germany and most of the world came to an abrupt stop, Italy following soon after when they realized there chances of victory were diminishing, tension between America and Japan were only continuing to grow.

By 1945, economic aid from both the Soviet Union and the United States had helped most of Europe begin to rebuild. France, forgotten by all in the rush to fix their own problems, remained unnervingly silent. Despite their differences, Ivan and Alfred soon became tentative friends, working closely to resolve any remaining angst after the Second World War.

While working together, Soviets began to notice the differences between their country and those in the West. Resentful feelings began to pile up, particularly as Stalin grew more guarded concerning Europe, just getting back on it's feet, and the Americas, strong as ever.

The world saw two Dictators overthrown that decade.

Alfred sighed and rubbed the back of his head anxiously. He trusted Truman, he really did, but that didn't do anything help the frustration he would feel at this meeting.

Once the Soviet Union had fallen and Russia had risen again, the rest of Europe had calmed down. Truman found it the perfect opportunity to propose, what he called, the United Nations to not only replace the League of Nations, as it had been completely useless, but also to enforce world cooperation. It seemed fine and dandy to Alfred F. Jones, he was excited even, until Kiku had been brought up.

They hadn't talked since December 7th, 1942. It hadn't been a pleasant conversation either.

"Ah, Alfred, you're here already!" When Alfred looked up he found Arthur walking towards him.

"Figured it would be best to get here early," he mumbled, causing the other to look at him oddly.

"Right," Arthur replied, lamely. The two would never be as close as they had been when America was a small, enthused colony, but WWII had brought them to an agreement at least. He'd come to notice when the young nation was troubled.

"I just," Alfred started. "I just don't want to look at _him_. I'll never forgive him, ever."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably but was saved from speaking by the door of the London meeting room opening and allowing entrance to a flood of countries.

He patted Alfred on the back and went to take his seat.

Looking around, he could see the damage of the war on many, even four years after it's conclusion. Ludwig, while still far healthier than he had been, was still ill looking, no doubt a result of the lack of employment that left millions of Germans homeless or barely making by.

Ivan too looked worn, but the Russki would never wear down. Anyone who knew him could tell that. Trotsky, thought dead, had reappeared last year, aged but no less alive. After the attempt on his life in Mexico eight years earlier, a small group of Trotskyists had salvaged him from the hospital and managed to save his life.

After the abuse suffered under Stalin, the Russians were more than willing to listen to the Bolshevik's ideas and propositions. With sixty-eight years under his belt, Trotsky was elected to lead the country until a new candidate was found. He'd been working with the world democracies as of late to get the government ready for its new leader.

With improvements being made daily, Ivan's aura had relaxed. He was by no means kind and courteous, still as terrifying as ever despite his misleading face. Nevertheless, the Baltic nations were looking much happier, despite their sudden absorption in to the, formerly called, Soviet Union.

Ivan was touchy about that. The name, that is.

The chatter throughout the room continued as Alfred moved before them to speak. A few failed attempts at silencing them brought and irate Ludwig to his feet, slamming his hands down on the table with a force that causes it to shudder and rock.

"_HALT DIE KLAPPE!_"

He sat back down once he was sure everyone had turned their attention to the front of the room. Alfred gulped and plastered a forced smile on his face.

"Right, thank you everyone for coming. I thought that maybe we should—."

"We're not going to speak in French?" Antonio interrupted his voice and eyes portraying his surprise.

"French has been the language of diplomacy for centuries, since Latin fell out of use. To suddenly change that is—."

"What does it matter, what's wrong with English? Couldn't we just speak whatever we want?"

"Well I, for one, would like some normalcy after all that's happened—."

"Speaking of French, why isn't Francis here?"

All eyes turned to Ivan, surprised at his sudden input. A few murmurs filled the temporary silence. Alfred glanced to the somber Ludwig, whom had his face buried in the palms of his hands.

"Ludwig! Ludwig, wasn't Big Brother France locked up in that Fort you took in Belgium? Wasn't he, Ludwig?" Feliciano babbled, prodding the German next to him.

Belgium, farther down the table, sputtered in shock and was unprepared for the onslaught of questions now being thrown her way

"Ludwig," Arthur whispered, voice laced with darkness. "You haven't left him there all this time, have you? If he's been locked up after still after all that's happened in France—."

"He disappeared." Ludwig said plainly, not looking up from his palms.

"After the Burning of France he was gone. I went to check on him for a bit and when I left to hear news of what had happened he just disappeared. Along with most of the French population."

"And the rest?" Arthur snarled. "Where did the rest go?"

"They were dead."

No one spoke. There were mixed feelings throughout the room, the comical relief of no more Francis and the sudden realization of what that may entail.

"Those Frenchman that we found along with the German officers were listed as collaborating with the Vichy Government to persecute those who stood up to _his_ rule." Ludwig explained.

"But our investigation was five years after the Burning. Anything could have happened since then."

"Francis should be found then," Ivan proposed somewhat cheerfully.

"Why are you so interested?" Arthur asked, a deep frown on his face.

"Though it was only for a short while, the French Prime Minister provided political Asylum to my superior. If he hadn't done so, I must wonder what state Russia would be in right now." Ivan trailed off. He slipped a canteen from his uniform and took a swig.

Arthur turned away in disgust but Alfred looked thoughtful. "Yes…Yes…that's right. He could still be around. Perhaps he escaped and led his people to safety. It's not _impossible._"

He seemed to radiate energy with every word, as if the very idea of such heroism was drawing him back to his former self.

Pumped, Alfred turned to Arthur.

"Iggy! I nominate you to investigate the disappearance of Francis Bonnefoy!"

Arthur's jaw dropped and he leaped from his seat.

"What, me? Why?"

"Despite your differences, you've always been closest to Francis," Antonio butted in. "You've been together the longest."

"We were never _together_," Arthur argued, turning pink. "And if we're talking about who was the closest, that would have been Scotland!"

"But you're here representing him," Alfred said imperiously. "And have you forgotten about the time you wanted to be just like him? Hell, you might as well _be_ French with all the intermarriages your people had. Even your first _kings_ chose to live there most of their lives!"

Still ripening, Arthur was speechless. His mouth flapped open and shut several times but not so much as a peep was made.

"Therefore, you are the perfect person for the job. That settled, I don't think we should have the next meeting until Iggy returns from his mission with new on Francis. Therefore, you're all dismissed."

The mood in the room had, oddly enough, brightened compared to before. There was a mystery to be solved and they would all eagerly await news on the situation.

From where he sat beside the Baltic Nations, Ivan considered searching the land himself. His superior had been adamant about uncovering the truth behind what had happened to France. Perhaps more had happened in his short time there then he had revealed to Ivan, however, it was didn't concern him. Secretly, he wanted to see what state the Frenchman would be in when found. Would he be injured or completely fine? How empty would those eyes be?

Ivan felt an odd connection to the country; they'd had their bloody revolutions, lived long and difficult lives, and worked under numerous leaders who had fallen in the quest for world domination. His own General Winter had brought down one Francis' favorites, Napoleon.

Farther up the table, Ludwig was trapped inside of his own head, envisioning the torture he'd seen, allowed to happen before his own eyes. He remembered the blood dripping down from the shackles that once held Francis captive, and the smattering of dried crimson coating the dirty ground that he had laid on.

Had he managed to tear his hands out of the sharp, metal cuffs? It seemed more likely that the blood there had been from his writhing in pain than his attempt at escape. So perhaps someone had managed to sneak inside and release him, covering their own tracks by locking them afterward. That still seemed unlikely. Ludwig hoped he was alive, if only for the chance to apologize.


End file.
